


Sunlight

by Anonymous



Series: Krymménos | Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Real Person Fiction, Video Blogging RPF, Youtuber RPF
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, Consent, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dominant Ethan Nestor, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, French Kissing, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Krymménos, M/M, Needy Mark Fischbach, Spanking, Submissive Mark Fischbach, Switch Ethan Nestor, Switch Mark Fischbach, Teasing, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, boys loving boys, crankiplier - Freeform, desparation, dom!Ethan, gentle domination, prose, soft boys in love, sub!Mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29621133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He can't help it. To be without Ethan's attention was to be like a flower without sunlight. To be refused made him want to work his teeth into the words and contort them intoyes, yes, yes.And at the same time - a true glutton - he wanted Ethan to refuse him firmer. To work him into a lather untilpleaseandEthanbecame the only two words important enough to be permitted off his tongue.Prompt fill.
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Series: Krymménos | Prompt Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176389
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52
Collections: Anonymous





	Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> As always this work is intended creatively and is not an accurate reflection of nor intended in any disrespect towards the persons mentioned; their family; their friends; their representatives or their significant others. Please do not send this work to any of the aforementioned persons.
> 
> This is a combination of the following two prompts:  
>  _I’d actually love to see how you explore the possibilities of domEthan/subMark. Because I’ve always read Ethan as more of a switching type of guy and Mark trying to establish dominance, but failing utterly, lol._  
>  +  
>  _maybe something involving mark being a needy brat, trying to get ethan’s attention by wearing thigh-highs and a skirt? (or other clothing of your choosing) bonus points for spanking and/or manhandling haha_
> 
> I tried a different style with this one. It's (definitely) probably not as smutty as you'd have hoped, which I apologise for, but I wasn't feeling too great and wanted to explore something softer. Thank you so much for these wonderful prompts and for entrusting me with your ideas.  
> -JJH

He can't help it. To be without Ethan's attention was to be like a flower without sunlight. To be refused made him want to work his teeth into the words and contort them into _yes, yes, yes._

And at the same time - a true glutton - he wanted Ethan to refuse him firmer. To work him into a lather until _please_ and _Ethan_ became the only two words important enough to be permitted off his tongue. He'd tried to ignore - no, _deny_ this part of himself for so long that for a time he'd managed to convince himself it had been mere fantasy. The kind you dream up when thinking of _what if_ and _I wonder._

And Ethan had pulled it from him as easily as plucking the strings of a harp. As easily as water flows through a canyon. Had it started with words, or touches? Perhaps the way Ethan looked at him. Looked at him when he pushed and pressed. Spoke to him when he was chewing the end of his rope. Touched him when he was toeing the line between himself and himself, but softer. Edges rounded off and sharp points broken at the tips. When Ethan's hands and voice sculpted him into something different. 

Two weeks.

Two weeks since Ethan had last touched him. Two weeks since the last _taking me so well_ or _just like that, give it to me like that, good boy._

Two weeks since the last time it had been just them and the space they carved out for themselves where _Markiplier_ and _Crankgameplays_ fell away and so did the layers of _Mark Fischbach_ and _Ethan Nestor_ , leaving just _them_. He and him. The sunlight and the flower, soaking it up greedily. 

Ethan was close enough to touch, but not the way Mark wanted to. Not the way he _needed_ to. 

Ethan came closure, soft flesh waved in the face of a beast that hungered, and Mark pressed closer, closing the distance between them to slide his body where Ethan became a balm, soothing the burn. He shifted, knocking their hips together and forcing Ethan to yield, gaze deliberately averted to give the air of authoritative disinterest. A play for the cameras, tricks they knew smoke-screened the true intent behind the lingering touches and the meaningful looks.

And to avoid the way Ethan would stare at him, gaze through glass, seeing everything raw and real as if Mark had flayed himself open and said _here, see me_.

Ethan went pliantly, stepping back where pushed, crowded into the edge of the table where he was trapped only by his own acceptance of Mark's petulance. He made a quip, something for the cameras, a joke about being bullied and bumped around, but behind the safety of Mark's angled body his hand found his wrist, fingers pressing at the pulse point with just enough pressure for Mark's flesh to give, fleeting pulse beating against the pad of his thumb as though if it just pressed hard enough the two would meet.

When the camera was turned away, Ethan leaned closer.

_Remember your manners._

Discipline and a threat both. But it was spurs to a stubborn horse, a glimpse into the freedom of a _maybe_ that Mark was willing to make a break for.

He pressed again. Ethan's boundaries were flexible beneath his fingers, temporary, weak things that bent and caved under his touch, cracked things through which sunlight filtered that would fracture and fall apart if he squeezed them hard enough.

 _Play with me,_ he pleaded wordlessly, letting the back of his hand brush Ethan's hip like a puppy nosing at it's master as they passed.

 _Pay attention to me,_ he demanded, as they crowded the table to review footage, encroaching upon Ethan's space to press his hips to the curve of Ethan's ass, slotting into place seamlessly as if the two spaces had been crafted for each other, grinding his hips forwards. 

Ethan let him, always. Like a leaf carried by water he went where Mark guided him, softened under his touch but still so far from where he was truly wanted. 

Every bold act of defiance was met with steady eyes and a low voice, syrup-thick soothing hiding the warning laced behind the sweetness of _patience_ and _gentle, baby._

Ethan leaned back into the contact, neither permission nor denial. A test he hadn't cared to study for. One he was prepared to fail as he shifted, slid where he was full and needy against where he longed to settle, to carve out a place for himself and bury home, slow and deep.

The footage is fine. It always is. Mark dances like a puppet on strings and Ethan walks in his footsteps, smoothing down the ruffles and hiding what Mark sometimes wished he could bare naked and true to the world. 

"Come help me make some drinks."

Not a request. Not quite a command, either. More a statement; an announcement of Ethan's desires that Mark could choose to attend or to not. It was one of the similarities they shared when it came to this. The easy, calm manner in which they artfully guided the other. 

He followed. As he always would; tethered to the pull of Ethan's gravity, straining to stay in the warmth that he radiated. Tempered as the first of beasts; trained to the gentle hand and the soothing voice. Ethan was sitting on the counter when he entered, expectant but not necessarily inviting. Mark cared enough to kick the door shut with his heel, creating some semblance of privacy; their own little bubble where he was unafraid to step forwards. 

He stepped between Ethan's splayed thighs, fitting seamlessly into the space that seemed his by birthright. Ethan's legs went effortlessly into the groove of his hips, as if Mark's body had been designed just so. Ethan said nothing save a soft exhale as Mark greedily reaped what contact he could. Greed was a sin he fed openly when it came to Ethan.

_Touch me more. Don't leave yet. One more kiss. Harder. Faster._

He pinned Ethan's wrists above his head, the pressure light enough that a feather wouldn't fold beneath it, drinking in the way that Ethan's pupils blew out, twin pools of jet he would willingly drown within. Ethan's scent was coffee and aftershave and the fabric softener he'd used near religiously since finding it on a shelf at a Walmart; airborne aphrodisiac as he breathed it in.

"You're being cruel."

"You're misbehaving."

It was spoken boredly, but chastised him all the same. That was their dance - gentle, sedate. Somehow more impactful that open anger. The quiet disapproval of a lover, a tighter leash than any rage could offer. Neither of them liked rage, with it's volatile storms and static electricity that lingered in the air long after the skies were clear.

"Pay attention to me and I'd be good," Mark breathed, lips tracing the words along Ethan's jaw like scripture. The faint stubble there made them tingle, made his thighs ache for the memory of the pink burns it would leave on their insides. Ethan tipped his head for the touch but remained otherwise indifferent, gaze off to the wall until a pleading brush of teeth vied for his attention. 

"You'll be good because you want to be," Ethan corrected, flexing his wrists lightly. His gaze was hazel molasses that Mark sank into without fight, ensnared as good as a fish on a hook. "Because you want to be good for _me_ , don't you, Mark?"

He did.

"You want to be good for me because it'll make me happy. Because I'll approve. Because that'll make you feel good; even if I'm not touching you."

_It will. I do. You are my sun and I orbit around you and I don't ever want to leave your gravity._

Ethan broke his hold easily, Mark's grip falling away like ice melting in the first rays of spring's sun. A hand went into his hair, gentle the way a summer breeze whispered through tree leaves. The other went lower, and all Mark knew from there was _warm_.

Warm like the golden sand of the coast. Warm like lazy mornings in bed, beneath the shelter of the covers. 

_Sunlight,_ Mark thought. _Ethan is like sunlight._

And then the clouds became a barricade, leaving him in the cool of the shade. Ethan pulled his hand away slowly, dragging it like a paintbrush across a canvas; an artist admiring the result of his craft. Mark ached for him on the best of days; hunger that could never be sated and thirst that could never be quenched, and two weeks of being starved and denied had left him wanting and eager, hard so quickly that in anyone else's company he'd be almost appalled. 

"No." Was he complaining? Begging? Neither seemed sufficient. 

_Yes,_ Ethan breathed against his lips. A consolation prize. A promise.

 _Soon,_ the kiss said. _Be good for me just a little longer._

Two weeks became three, and desperation transgressed into absolution. Quiet compliance and idle defiance became weeds, rooted deep and clamouring for what traces of warmth remained. Two weeks had been the promise. Just enough time for Ethan to catch up on his schedule, so churn out what he needed to in order to fall back onto the steadiness of organisation. Just enough time for Ethan to leave him wanting and needing enough that every moment spent together erred on bittersweet; relief and torture both. 

Two weeks he'd agreed to be good. To be soft edges and sweet silence, well mannered and unobtrusive, a pretty decoration Ethan could sometimes brush his fingertips over in reverence, their time together a temporary museum. But Mark was tired of being something to be looked at and not touched; tired of being left to wilt. 

Nature had it's ways; and humans were not so far off the kingdom of beasts as they claimed to be. Beauty and strength were the craftmanship of desire for most things, and were two words that fell from Ethan's tongue often and unashamedly, spoken into the seam of his mouth of the sheen of sweat over his skin, traced into the furl of muscle between his legs or the velvet heat of his length.

And Mark was nothing if not an engineer of ingenuity, striking both irons with one hammer. The shirt he wore was a size too small, sewn sleeve hems stretched to their capacity around his biceps. The black material presented a soft sheen under the light, a layer of gloss over the sculpture of his torso. The panels of mesh placed in a corset-like pattern over his stomach and sides gave a tantalising glimpse into what could be; like cakes in a bakery window.

The rest of the outfit he pulled from their time filming Camp Unus Annus, tight shorts that clung to the globes of his ass, fabric straining to encompass him and the thigh-highs they'd opted against, subverting to the somewhat safer option of knee-lengths. 

_Because that's marginally less homo, right?_ Ethan had whispered into the small of his back, pressing his smirk into the soft skin there as he worked Mark open around two fingers, tauntingly but so tenderly thorough.

Ethan arrived late, as Mark knew he would. As Mark had been _counting_ on, his chips stacked in one spot, his card hand dealt. There were no cameras to play pretend for today, no audience to lay a smoke blindfold over. His antics were easily disguised; a small party to celebrate Sean's latest milestone, casual drinks in the safety of Mark's house where they could enjoy themselves without the interruption of fans. 

Like a wildflower vying for the attention of a honeybee he bloomed bold and bright amongst them. _Look at me,_ he declared. _You want me._

Ethan's gaze raked over him and suddenly he was a sweet treat left out in the sun to melt, pooling sticky and sun-warmed at his feet. He was bathed in sunlight again, lust-warm and hazy like an Italian summer. Ethan said nothing, cataloguing each piece of him with critical evaluation before he moved around the room, close but still so far, near magnetised. Mark refused the pull, teeth set against the leash, digging in his heels. 

He'd worked for Ethan's attention. It was time that the tide turned. 

Ethan came to him, finally, but like a comet in the expanse of space he never stayed. They met in the middle, the perfect metaphysical representation of the impasse they'd found themselves at, each toeing the line and wondering who would fall over the edge of it first. It was a game Mark distinctly had the impression he'd already lost.

Ethan's hand settled on his flank, touch smouldering through the thin barrier between them. _Beautiful,_ he mouthed against the curve of Mark's jaw. _Mine,_ against his temple. _So good for me,_ pressed as a kiss against the corner of his mouth. Everywhere he touched heat bloomed, thawing his winter frost into a summer that crawled slow and sweet through his veins, igniting him inside out until he was an ember encompassed in the glow of the sun.

Too late he remembered his intent, cotton candy melting on Ethan's tongue, will-less and reduced to a sweetness that clung to his teeth for a second taste. Ethan squeezed his flank and trailed his hand upwards, scorching a path to his bicep where he left him, weak and wanting. It took him several moments to recognise the pay-out his gamble had given him.

Ethan became a riptide, pushing and pulling him where and as he pleased. Denial bred desperation for Mark but for Ethan it birthed a quiet form of envy. A wilful creature content to wait out it's prey, to tire it out with minimal effort until it was gasping and writhing and it could sink it's teeth in, gluttonous on the reward of it's patience.

When Mark pressed too close to Sean, lavished him with just a breath too much attention Ethan came closer as if summoned by the brush of their bodies, leaning into his side with the steady persistence that let simple air fell oak trees. And Mark caved each time, cowed under the steady simmer of Ethan's touch, letting himself be bodily nudged away until the creature was satisfied and Ethan moved away again, content to let him catch his breath. 

And Ethan watched him, always. A distant glow always in the edge of his vision, observing with the same calm confidence of a man who knew the bet was fixed. Mark was a weighted dice, destined to always roll in Ethan's favor. 

It was dark when their friends left, trickling out of the door like petals dropping off in the autumn. He felt electrified as he closed the door, charged by every commanding touch and meaningful stare, every silent reminder of authority exchanged between them. He felt molten with it, an upside-down flame burning everywhere and nowhere as he followed the silence of the house outside. Ethan was waiting for him, alluring in the half-light. 

Ethan reached for him, contact fluttering around his jaw with the softness of butterfly wings before closing, a venus trap that forced his head up and back, diverting his gaze to the sky. 

"I want you to count the stars," Ethan murmured into his ear. "Count them until I tell you to stop.

 _I'd count them all if you asked me to,_ he thought. _Every star in the sky. I'd name them all, too. I'd name them all after the things I love about you. Because of you._

"Stop," Ethan whispered into the space just below his ear, lips grazing his skin and leaving a trail of heat in their wake. 

"How many did you count?"

"Fifteen."

Ethan's hand slid slowly along his jaw, a wildfire that left nothing but need in it's wake as it pushed into his hair, long fingers tangling in the silken waves. They twisted there, grip tightening slowly and drawing the air from his lungs as if by the same touch. He became an equator between Ethan's blazing heat blanketed against his spine and the wicked cold of the garden table where he was draped over it, folded down like a doll, pliant flesh and willing obedience under Ethan's guidance.

Mark had always wondered what it would be like - to stand on the very precipice between fire and ice. To burn and freeze at once, caught in the heart of two contrasts. 

He knew now that felt like this. Like Ethan's breath against the shell of his ear and the scent of dew under his cheek. It was the words _needy_ and _good_ and _count for me_ whispered between his shoulderblades and the darkness reflected in the polished resin, the stars there as close as he'd ever get to them. 

_One._

_Please._

_Three._

_More._

_Five._

_I love you._

_Seven._

_I missed you._

He counted each strike with a voice barely more than a breath. Like flint, each strike showered him in sparks that threatened to turn his ember into an inferno and burn him whole. He was over-fed and ravenous at once, eyes closed to completely surrender to the heat. Was this what walking on the sun felt like? Burning up from the inside out, surrounded by warmth and light and completely willing to let it consume you whole. 

His skin was scorched where Ethan struck it, each touch rendering him liquid and malleable to Ethan's desire. His own ached between his legs, riding the edge of the table a biting form of pleasure that held him back by the bit, straining for the freedom of release and kept rooted to the spot by the anchor behind him, murmuring low praise between every gentle reminder of who he was loved by, who he'd entrusted with his heart. 

Ethan pressed him down into the table further, manipulating him in the way that angels could be carved from marble. _Seven_ became _eleven_ , became the cool air licking greedily at his scalded flesh, where Ethan's heat had sank bone deep and satisfying.

_Fifteen._

Sunlight was the food of all life, and Mark had never felt more alive as in Ethan's presence.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who've brought it up recently; I am aware of the similarities but there is little I can do about it and I don't want to instigate conflict. Thank you all for your concerns! ❤  
> If you have a prompt that you'd like me to fill, please feel free to [send it here.](https://krymmenosprompts.tumblr.com/) The wonderful Kaliumcyanid created and moderates the page for me.


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